


unprecedented access to wheat

by hanktalkin



Series: 12069  AND  THE  POWER  OF  WISHFUL  THINKING [5]
Category: Homestuck, Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alien Flora & Fauna, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/F, Trollstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-19 08:13:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22741453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanktalkin/pseuds/hanktalkin
Summary: Location: Imperial Sustenance Planet CC37A. Continent 14. Parcel 10.25° 3.14°
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Series: 12069  AND  THE  POWER  OF  WISHFUL  THINKING [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1486649
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	unprecedented access to wheat

The grass waves around you, waist height and enchantingly fluid as you follow your morail through the path she forges. It’s nothing like the plant life of your childhood: no long, knarled stems steeped with burrs, no blooms that smell of rot and will devour you if you wander too close. The nutrition stalks are tame, the lifeblood of the empire, and it is your imperial duty to care for them by the trillions of tons. Or at least, it is your duty to care for the ones who care for them.

Mercy checks her wrist, the locator pinging three times and then ceasing. This is where your summons has been emanating from.

The section of farm isn’t far from the parcel’s shuttle port, close enough that you decided to walk rather than take a clumsy scuttlebug through the fields. The alert that woke you indicated a mustard level incident, which fell into medium threat or higher, which means MANUAL SUPERVISION REQUIRED as the yellow text scrolling across your PDA helpfully indicates.

A dozen drones scamper about the area, humming as they wait for a troll to give them further instructions. These aren’t like the military drones that guard the shuttle port or patrol the sky in sleek formations, but are smaller, more nimble, and equipped with only a modest amount of culling equipment. They are the automated processes that control the harvesting on the planet, and they buzz about you and Mercy, preparing for a possible quarantine. The planet is entirely autonomous: CC37A contains no ecosystem that is not managed by drone or engineered beetle—every surface not claimed by ocean is covered in endless blue fields. A population of a few thousand trolls in the whole world can make you feel monstrously alone.

“Sparrow, look here,” Mercy says, motioning where the drone’s activity is most furious.

You kneel, the edge of your leg digging into the dirt. Where she indicates, the ground is torn, roots pale and wormlike as they point into the sky.

“I thought the alert indicated a disease,” you say, examining the torn stalks.

“As did I,” she says. That is her specialty after all, why she left her assigned parcel in the middle of the day to examine this remote anomaly nearly two hours south. Organism decorruption is not a glamorous job, but its better than being strapped to the battery of a ship, her feeble psionics drained for all they’re worth. It’s safer here, no battles, no conquering. That’s why you’ve followed her out here to the rim world, why Pharah left a well-stipend position as a captain: it may be as close to paradise as you’ll ever get. “Perhaps they don’t have a protocol for recognizing physical damage, and infection was the closest their analysis would allow for.”

“It looks like a lusus did this,” you note.

Her eyes narrow further. “A reasonable explanation, if not for one thing.” She stands, brushing dust off her uniform. “There are no Lusii on Cici.”

“…A drone with a malfunctioning navigation?”

Instead of responding, she looks southward, spying something beyond you. “Come on. There is more damage this way.”

Again you follow her, nutrition stalks parting around you. It dips into the uncanny valley, this off-color of the palette; the sea of grass that should be purple, but instead is ultramarine set against yellowed sky. To think, when willfully spread across the galaxy as they have, these plants must be the singular most populous species in the whole universe.

The broken stalks lead haphazard through the field, sometimes visible from the last bit of crushed vegetation, sometimes bent inward to hide the damage. The buzz of the drones fades behind you, and intuition heightens your senses as you spiral further away from the origin of the incident. It looks like something large was staggering through here, and despite the fact you _know_ nothing could get through the planetary defenses, your mind wanders to the only time you’ve ever seen a cholerbear, the way it’d battered its way through the jungle near your home, slaughtering in its path while you and Hangzo hid in the trees. A shiver runs down your spine.

“Something is wrong,” you tell Mercy as you kick aside a trampled pile of nutrition stalks.

“I know. We’re finding out what.”

There are no drones for miles now. No one knows you are here except she and you. Every second you resist the urge to brush your hand against your swordkind, feeling like the docile plants around you may turn at any moment. The unease burns you until you reach the end of the trail.

You stand on the edge of a massive shape dented into the grass, strands ruined and bent. Food enough to feed your whole parcel for a year, obliterated completely. There is no time to mourn as you feel your limbs locking, saved only by the instinct to stop short before the groaning noise begins.

It is the roar of a ship, cacophonous and unmistakable, and you lift your visor to see it descending on you. Within seconds it is hovering in the center of the clearing, its engines pushing grass outward into a distinctive shape. It settles: a perfect fit. It hits you then, too late, that this ship has been here before.

There is no point running; a ship like that would pursue you planetside just as efficiently as it does chasing a wounded enemy through space. The design is sleek, not for military use but not a pleasure cruiser either, some sort of unique model that can only mean it is here to bring about some yet undetermined trouble. At least, it _was_ undetermined until the landing struts extend, lowering a form from the white glow of the inner ship into the sunlight.

Her shoulders are pressed back, hands tucked behind her as she surveys your planet with mild curiosity. The uniform of an imperial geneticist clings to her form, sleek and star-studded as her sleeves hang past her waist, daring any to challenge her presence wherever that may be.

“Moira…” Mercy whispers.

That isn’t your first thought.

The whirr from the ship cuts, and the stalks surrounding the clearing cease dancing. Moira O’Deorain turns her head each way as though checking the endless expanse of uninhabited farmland for witnesses to whatever it is she’s here for. And, as she takes her first step down the loading ramp, you have an idea what that might be.

Whatever this is, it is not a pre-notified meeting. They did not clear it through bureaucracy, they did not alert any of you. Moira is, as always, here to disturb the status quo.

Your swordkind is in your hand and your body is in front of Mercy’s.

Moira stops, her strutpods now resting on firm terrestrial soil. She seems taller, somehow, even with the heights she stretches in your memories. “Sparrow. I cannot say it is a pleasure to see you either, but certainly that isn’t necessary?”

You don’t move. It may be your place to stand aside for a seadweller, to never question no matter what her request might be, but it also your duty to protect Mercy, but beyond all that she is your morail and you did _not_ work this hard to carve out a relatively not-horrible life for yourself just to see Mercy dragged away by some stupid fish.

“Sparrow,” Mercy warns from behind you.

You don’t care. It seems very likely you’re about to die for brandishing a weapon at an Oasis scienterrorist, but there is no way back now, and you will at least draw blood if you must die here.

“Genjii,” she insists. She steps up and places a hand on your shoulder—under pretence to hold you back—but it brushes against your faceplate on the way down. The barest suggestion of a pap loosens your shoulders. “She lured us out here for a reason. One outside of bureaucracy notice.”

Moira is still staring at you, making no move to knock your weapon aside. A self-satisfied smile twists her lips, and since you feel you should surely be dead by now, you agree that there is something here you’re missing. You tuck your blade away.

Her gills flex with amusement. “Well, now that is over with. Angela darling, how have you been?”

“Alive.” Mercy’s eyes bore into her. “Are you here to change that, Docterror?”

“No.” Moira smiles. “Merely visiting an old hatefriend, and delivering a message.”

‘Old hatefriend’ may be a loaded term. You can feel the disgust radiating off Mercy in waves, hatred you would be surprised she was capable of if you hadn’t known her while she and Moira were together. Now it is your turn to shuffle behind her, pressing as close as the points in your shoulders will allow.

“A message,” she repeats with disdain. “From who?”

Moira’s smile grows wider. “From the Aspirant to the imperial throne.”

Your blood runs cold. That’s why Moira brought you here, separated you from your drones, isolated you on this plain. She no longer works through the bureaucracy, she’s stepped over that line she’s always been toeing: she’s turned traitor.

“I have no interest in helping a coup,” Mercy replies stiffly, coming to the same conclusion as you.

“Do you think this some sort of test?” Moira asks, her sleek, eyebrowless face conveying how little she believes that. “You’ve never had love for the empire, any more than I. In fact, _less_ than I considering…circumstances.”

There is another troll behind Moira in the ship, her pilot maybe. He stays in the shadow of the exit ramp, watching all of you with unreadable eyes.

Mercy doesn’t seem to notice. “What ill-advised game are you playing now? An Heiress doesn’t go requesting help from sustenance planets. You should start thinking of better lies, O’Deorain.”

“No lies.” Moira begins to walk toward you. You tense, reaching for your blade once again, but she merely passes you to stare stoically at the cobalt horizon. “I was asked if I knew anyone who would be receptive to our cause, and I truthfully said I knew a goldblood who may be…sympathetic.”

A goldblood psionic that has stayed under the radar this long. Helpful, if you plan to go against the empire’s own army. The picture is starting to come together.

“If the Aspirant is recruiting the likes of _you_ ,” Mercy hisses, “her uprising is something I want no part of.”

“She has few options,” Moira says, too quickly it almost seems, as though she honestly believes her own line. “But whether I’m involved should mean little to you. This is a royal invitation, an opportunity to join what I know you have always been keeping your little fantasies about.”

“To go flying off to the stars and join a doomed uprising?” Mercy scoffs. “I am perfectly happy here.”

“Happy? Maybe.” Moira turns from the setting sun back to you. “But satisfied? Never as long as I have known you.”

“You will not kidnap her from here,” you interrupt, because this is beginning to drag on. Every minute you stand here is another chance for a passing drone to take notice. “You try, and I will stop you. It will cost me nothing to end a rebellious former minister.”

Moira’s ganderbulbs shift from Mercy to you, going from a spiteful sneer to dispassion in a moment. “I would never dream of forcing her. The uprising is only for those committed. Our Aspirant has made that…” her voice hangs on the word. “… _clear_.”

“I hardly consider myself committed.”

“Not to anything, it seems,” Moira says idly. “Tell me Angela, is this how you expected your future? Putting bandages on plant boo-boos? Trapped on a plant so … _sterile_?” By the way the corner of her mouth turns you suspect the disgust for this place lays less with Mercy than with the minister herself. The moment is short lived, and she rolls her shoulders. “So. I have delivered my ultimatum.”

“My help would hardly make a difference,” Mercy replies tightly.

“It never does,” Moira says, and you feel Mercy stiffen beside you. “But I did as I was asked. You get your chance to witness change, Angela. Just the one. Otherwise, continue to wait here until the sitting Empress takes notice. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until you slip up.”

For the first time, Mercy is quiet. Then, “…I have my quadrantmates to consider.”

“Bring them with.” Moira motions dismissively in your direction. “More bodies are better than less.”

“I’d need to talk to my matesprit.”

Your bloodpusher jerks, and you lean in to whisper, “don’t tell me you’re actually _considering_ this?”

“I just need to think,” she says hastily.

“Well then,” Moira says with a clap of her hands. “My work here is done. Goodbye Angela, hopefully not for the last time.”

With that, she walks back to her ship, missing the snarl on Mercy’s face. That, you remember, is what she said last time too.

The pilot is waiting for her, giving you all one last look before disappearing back to the cabin. Moira pauses, and says as an afterthought, “don’t take too much time though. We can only stay in empire-controlled space so long before attracting attention. Meet back here in exactly one wipe, if you’re so inclined.” With that, she’s gone, the landing ramp retracting back into the bowls of the ship.

The wind whips you as the ship rises, threatening to send you as flat as the grass. But then it shoots into the sky with a wink, disappearing just as covertly as it arrived, leaving you nothing but the feeling in your acid tract. As soon as it’s out of sight, Mercy lifts her chin to the sky, closing her ganderbulbs as the sun beats down on her face.

“…I can never get away, can I?” she asks.

You feel like you should say something, but nothing comes to mind. Instead you cast an arm over her shoulder and offer some a gentle _shoosh_.

When she finally opens her eyes, she looks down at the dirt pulverized underneath your shoes. “Come on. We need to go talk to Pharah.”


End file.
